


What a Difference a Day Makes

by poketin



Category: Chungking Express (1994), Professional Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Golden Lovers, M/M, but a hopeful sad sad man, chungking express au sort of, ddt is sort of implied, i love chungking express and wanted to write it with golden lovers, kenny being a sad sad man, kota being mysterious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 03:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poketin/pseuds/poketin
Summary: Just coming here wasn’t enough. He wasn’t grabbing any sort of destiny, nor taking control of his dreams…or anything. The only thing he’d been grabbing was another glass of watered down tea, the only semblance of control ordering another drink and choosing which lonely corner or flickering light to stare into. He let his head thump against the counter. He couldn’t go on like this.Kenny bit his lip and decided.He was going to fall in love with the first person who walked through that door.(A Golden Lovers fic inspired by the first half of Chungking Express. Fic title inspired by the song "What a Diff'rence a Day Made," played in the film)





	What a Difference a Day Makes

**Author's Note:**

> Chungking Express is such a beautiful film. I hope I managed to get across some of that beauty with the most beautiful tag team in the world.

Kenny sat at the bar, nursing his sad drink, trapped in his sad head. The last vestiges of his dream were swirling at the bottom of his glass, so far out of reach. He trailed his pinkie in the dregs of his green tea. Was it his fifth double tonight? There was a small collection of drained shot glasses around him, but the bartender could have easily shuffled them around. His heart guessed it was an action of sympathy, to help him look less like he’d been here for over an hour and a half, clearly alone. Pathetic. His brain bombarded him with cynical alternatives. You’re taking up too much space. He needs those glasses for the other customers. You’re woozy enough to accidentally knock them all off the counter and you don’t look like someone who could afford to pay the bar back for the damages. He hadn’t drunk any alcohol, but his head swam all the same.

He rested his chin on the bar, sighing through his nose, watching as the glasses fogged up in front of him. Tired. Clouded. Dominating. It was a pretty good image of his life, all things considered. Especially recently.

Last year he’d been invited to shows all over his home country. Sure, they’d been seedy bars clouded by cheap cigarettes and oppressive perfumes and colognes making his nose itch and his eyes water. On top of it all, the pay was crummy, barely enough to cover his travel expenses. The food he’d survived on during that time had been unspeakably cheap and horrifyingly bland.

But none of that had mattered when he wrestled, he only cared about doing it and doing it _well_.

He’d had difficulties, met naysayers and sneering so-called “wrestling authorities” that told him he would never make it, that he was too naïve, too optimistic, not interesting enough, not strong enough, not big enough.

He was never enough.

But eventually, he’d been noticed. Over the last few months, a small Japanese wrestling promotion had wanted him to appear in a couple of their shows, even covering his travel costs and letting him stay in a shabby apartment. They were even gonna pay him a little! His dream was being realized before his very eyes. He’d studied the language as hard as he could in that short time, murmuring phrases to himself as he packed his gear, a coat, his important nerdy shirts, one slightly wrinkled button up, a couple pairs of pants, and his old Game Boy. The frigid morning he had hopped on the plane had been one of the best days of his life, and he couldn’t wait to have many more of those in Japan, chasing his dream, doing his best.

But he had arrived almost two months ago. And nothing had happened yet.

After the first month had passed, his hopes had diminished slightly. He’d talked a bit with some representatives of the company when he’d arrived, but after that…He hadn’t wanted to goof off too much in case the company called his apartment and he wasn’t there, deciding he wasn’t serious enough about this and sending him home. He didn’t have much money outside his food (and souvenir) budget to go places anyway. Nor anyone to go with him.

He’d barreled forward without considering how lonely this would all be.

He had messaged friends online, needing contact, a voice of some kind to bring warmth to his silent apartment. But they were always already in bed or taking care of their kids or having a date night with their loved ones. And so he spent the days cleaning his apartment, practicing his Japanese, flipping through weird game shows that he thoroughly enjoyed, and hovering around the phone, waiting. When it got late enough for him to figure they wouldn’t be calling him that day, he’d go wandering around the streets, looking through shop windows, smiling at people even as they crossed the street to avoid him, and taking pictures of any cats he could find.

It was slow going, and, once this first month was nearly over, his spirits falling, he’d decided to buy one can of pineapple every day from the nearby convenience store, each one sharing the same expiration date: the end of the next month. He decided that he’d eat them all at the end of the month, and then…well. He didn’t exactly know. He wanted to push it all from his mind. He needed some kind of goal, something he could hold in his hands and accomplish himself.

The days went by, until he was stacking the 30th can of pineapple on top of the small pile in one of the empty corners of his apartment. He was almost excited, in a way.

And so, just after midnight tonight, his vow only half-way completed, he had cracked open every single one of the thirty cans, and had eaten them. He couldn’t tell if the pit in his stomach was because of his anxious thoughts, or because the pineapple had technically been expired as he ate it, and there had been a lot of it.

He looked out the window and decided two months with nearly no words exchanged with someone other than himself was not what he wanted to end the month on. He threw on his coat and pushed out of his apartment, leaving himself in the night’s care, where it welcomed him in its glittering streetlights and various sounds of late night entertainment.

Kenny passed by bright restaurants, full of smiles and laughter, clubs where neon lights and pulsing music streamed from under heavy black doors, and a handful of arcades that he foolishly searched for a glowing neon sign, or any sign of life at this late hour.

Finally, he stopped at a bar, tucked away into the shadows.

The door was scuffed and scarred, quiet even in the warm orange light that escaped through a small square pane of clouded glass embedded near the top. He breathed in the cigarette smoke that trickled from the gap under the door, the clinking of glasses like a muted gunshot in the darkness.

The shabbiness of it was familiar. Just what he needed.

He pushed open the door and was greeted by a blast of warm air, and the lights of a jukebox. There were a few couples here and there, a group or two sitting at tables and chatting, beers in hand, declaring a toast and then forgetting about it a minute later as they laughed together.

He had sat at the bar, shying away from the long benches and large tables and the people occupying them, and had asked for the non-alcoholic options, of which there was only green tea, and had been served in the only glasses available for the non-drinker at this place: shot glasses.

“If I make it a double, it’s just like a normal glass.”

It wasn’t, but he didn’t push the bartender. Despite Kenny ordering mostly in Japanese, the bartender had spoken nothing but English to him. He felt the enormous time and focus he’d put into Japanese drain out of him.

Another failure.

He couldn’t blame the guy, he was barely coherent in English to many let alone a language he only had a few months of practice in, but his effort crumpled in him, feeling like a waste of time anyway. He still wasn’t enough. He chewed on the ice that had been in the bottom of his glass and had remained in moping silence for nearly two hours. Possibly longer.

Where was the connection his heart was hurting for?

Just coming here wasn’t enough. He wasn’t grabbing any sort of destiny, nor taking control of his dreams…or anything. The only thing he’d been grabbing was another glass of watered down tea, the only semblance of control ordering another drink and choosing which lonely corner or flickering light to stare into. He let his head thump against the counter. He couldn’t go on like this.

Kenny bit his lip and decided. 

He was going to fall in love with the first person who walked through that door.

His brain helpfully reminded him that this many failures in one night had basically crushed him, and how another was sure to snuff him out completely. He told his brain to shut up, downing the last of his tea and feeling like there was nothing else to lose. He picked his head up and looked towards the entrance he came in from.

Just in time.

A light caught his eye. A glint off a shiny surface, as a person stepped into the door frame.

He was wearing sunglasses. Indoors. At night. His dark hair fell a bit past his ears, a huge coat dominating his tall frame, his broad shoulders. 

Hiding from someone? Something? The whole world, maybe?

His shoes were bright orange. Not exactly subtle.

Kenny couldn’t help feeling excited, tapping at his glass with a fingernail. He could relate to it all.

He saw the shrouded stranger slide into one of the closest booths, the bartender already on his way with a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey. He tended to his drink, swirling it as he stared into the same emptiness that Kenny had occupied for hours.

Kenny thought of the expiration dates on the cans, and was standing before he knew it. He slid onto the bench next to the stranger.

"How's it going?"

Kenny could have kicked himself for the English that sputtered out. The stranger made no move to reply.

"How has the night been treating you?"

His Japanese was shaky, but hopefully still semi-coherent even after this long night. Still, the stranger sat still.

"Erm...Can I get you a drink?"

He pulled at any French memories that could grace his tongue for this moment of reaching out. He found himself grasping at empty air. This wasn’t going well. It wasn’t going bad either. It just…wasn’t going.

"Uh..."

"Your Japanese isn't bad."

The stranger was smiling now, still turned directly to the table but tilting his glass in Kenny's direction.

"Thank you...?"

No name provided.

“I’m Kenny.”

Still no name. The stranger offered something else.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a talker. Not usually at least.” His shoulders drooped by about a millimeter. Kenny felt his heart drop in turn, and tried a different approach.

“That’s alright, we don’t have to talk.”

But Kenny himself wasn’t much of a _non_ -talker, so only a few beats later, after tapping his foot and trying to memorize 3 seconds of the smooth song playing from the jukebox, he blurted something out again.

“What’s with your outfit?”

Mystery man was facing him now, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses (if his raised eyebrows were any indication).

“What do you mean?”

“Well there’s only a couple reasons that someone would be wearing sunglasses indoors, and at night for that matter.” Kenny counted off his fingers.

“One, you’re blind.”

The stranger sipped at his drink. Kenny continued.

“Two, you want to hide from somebody, maybe no one in particular. Just somebody. Sunglasses are good for hiding faces…especially tears. You don’t want to stand out. Ironic, considering sunglasses indoors, _at night_ (he really wanted to stress this) really sticks out.”

The smile was still there but there was something missing. Kenny had an idea.

“Or…number three. You just want to look really cool all the time.” He winked. “Well, let me tell you. It’s working. Really.”

His companion actually laughed at that, and turned to face him. Kenny felt himself grinning in response.

“That one is probably closest.”

His teeth were so shiny, his lips so pretty. Kenny saw himself reflected in the man’s sunglasses, red-faced and smiling and oh-so-eager. Maybe it was better to call it a night, he told himself. Better not to push everything that was Kenny Omega onto a total stranger after only meeting him a few minutes ago. He’d never actually fallen in love in one night before, but…there was something he felt with this guy. Something he’d never felt before, something he couldn’t even name exactly.

And somehow, he knew the stranger felt it too.

Their hearts beat as one, feeling like the oldest and closest friends despite Kenny not even knowing his name. He knew more about the guy’s lips and perfect cheekbones than his actual personality, his dreams and dislikes, his favorite food, what he does for a living, his hobbies. And still, when Kenny accidentally brushed the stranger’s finger with his own, reaching over to wave the bartender over, he swear he could feel it from the guy’s point of view, as well as his own.

He was well and truly connected to this man by the strange inclinations of love.

Kenny cleared his throat, and ordered another tea, as well as another of whatever the man next to him was currently sipping. He knew his Japanese was getting sloppier as the night went on, but he had never wanted to talk more in his entire life. He tried to pull up memories of a terrible Japanese joke book he’d studied the first couple days in Japan, even as he was already saying something.

“So…do you like pineapple?”

And as the night went on and on, their smiles turned to laughter turned to Kenny gesturing wildly about the crazy backflip he’d seen a guy do at the airport, “On an escalator too! It was _amazing_ , let me tell you—"

And among the stories and jokes and whispered secrets about how this guy _loved_ fireworks and had stashes of them in various places, how he ate cheese at every meal (“My doctor is not happy with me.” He was smiling as Kenny wheezed with helpless laughter), how he had tried over and over again to read the same novel for almost 15 years and had hated every attempt, the book worming pictures and authorial intent into his mind without permission, Kenny managed to pour his heart out.

Kenny actually managed to relate to this man, this stranger, his fears and woes that had swirled in his head over the past couple months. His loneliness and isolation because of time zones and outside responsibilities, his hope at a wrestling company finally _wanting_ him and his hurt when all he had found was silence. Even something he’d never told anyone: a bit of his dreams. What he thought wrestling could _be_ , and how he wanted it to be appreciated as the beautiful, exciting, emotional art that it was. How he wanted to change the world.

These feelings had been trapped, buried, with nowhere to go. Kenny showed a crack of vulnerability, and they came rushing towards that outlet, spilling out of his mouth at the slightest inquiring tilt of the man’s head and wry smile at his every other word.

Breathing heavily, Kenny apologized to the stranger he’d no doubt bored to tears with his ramblings. He simply motioned for Kenny to continue, that same mysterious smile on his lips, resting his head on his hand and absorbing every word.

At one point, the stranger’s head dropped closer and closer to Kenny’s shoulder, resting on it just as the bartender shook Kenny out of his own stupor to tell him the bar was closing.

Kenny groaned and made to stand up, but the man resting on him grabbed at his shirt, mumbling.

“Just take me somewhere we can rest, mhm?”

Kenny’s heart pounded. He paid for their drinks, and supported most of the dozing stranger’s weight onto his shoulder as he carried him out of the bar and into a waiting taxi (the bartender waved off Kenny’s sincerest thanks and apologies). He directed the taxi to the nearest hotel and hoped he had enough money for a room after all their drinking.

 

 

“Ah. You really meant resting, then.”

As soon as Kenny had gotten a room and deposited the stranger onto the huge mattress with plush sheets, he had immediately fallen asleep. He had done it so smoothly and serenely that Kenny had put his ear to the guy’s chest to make sure he hadn’t died somehow. He brushed a few strands of soft hair on the man’s forehead, trying to tuck them behind his ear, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Phew. No way we were doing _that_ with how much he drank tonight. Plus, I think such emotional whiplash would have killed me.”

He chuckled to himself, plopping into an armchair next to the bed which the stranger was starfished on top of, and picked up the phone to call room service. He paused as he heard a shuffle of blankets next to him.

“Kenny…”

Kenny faced the bed again. The man hadn’t seemed to move, and his breathing remained steady. He seemed ready to fall back asleep at any moment.

“What do you when you’re sad?”

Kenny swallowed.

“Me? I guess…I run. Or walk. Or jog.”

His response was quiet breathing and sunglasses still obscuring the love of his life. Sleep had claimed him once more.

Kenny stared. Then he turned towards the small, box television sitting on the ledge in front of the window and flicked it on, settling back into the armchair and dialing room service once more.

He ordered two helpings of Chef’s salad, intrigued at the weird mash-up of ingredients and the fact this combination existed in Japan or at all for that matter, and ate both of them when he realized he’d already gotten through two movies he only half-way understood and his companion was _still_ flopped in peaceful slumber.

All his trash went into the room’s trash bag, which he tied up and left outside the door. As he made his way back inside, he noticed a flash of orange among the plush, tangled sheets of the bed.

The guy was still wearing his blinding orange shoes.

Kenny remembered his mom saying something about feet swelling when someone slept in high heels, and assumed the principle still applied to most other shoes. He carefully unlaced the shoes, and slipped them off. Noticing a few faint dirt patches along the sides, Kenny brought the shoes to their room’s bathroom, and, wetting the end of his shirt in the sink, proceeded to scrub and shine every part of the shoes.

_He seems the type to hate messing up his shoes. They should shine as bright as he does._

A smile quirked at his lips.

After some time of this, when he was satisfied they were extra shiny, Kenny stood up and, cracking his back, made his way to the lace curtains covering their room’s enormous window. He pulled back a bit of the curtains, peeking into the outside world. Blanketing the sweeping view of the city was the faint blue light that blanketed the world just before sunrise.

He headed out.

Kenny agonized over writing down and leaving his phone number, so when he left the room and made his way down to the lobby, he gave the receptionist his number and asked that if a sleepy man from room 702 inquired after him, that they’d give it to him. He stepped into the frozen morning and tried not to look back at huge windows and closed curtains.

 

 

His feet pounded the grass as rain fell around him, head tilted upwards, letting the rain pepper his skin. He’d lost count of how many times he’d run in this park near his apartment.

Even after being up all night, he didn’t feel tired. He didn’t feel anything beyond the splash of raindrops.

But he still jumped nearly a foot into the air when his phone rang shrilly in the quiet morning, almost buzzing out of his jacket pocket. Kenny flipped open his jangling phone, putting it to his ear.

“Who…?”

“Check your messages, okay?”

The man from last night….

“What—”

He heard a click.

He had bothered to call him after all that…but what could he possibly mean?

Unless…?

He felt a jolt run down his spine, rushing to grab his coat from the bench he’d left it on, throwing it on and ignoring how soaked it was and how extra soaked he himself now was as he ran from the park, ran from the rain.

He sprinted up the stairs to his apartment, two at a time, three at a time once he got to the top, nearly tripping and slamming right into his door. His hands were shaking, dropping his keys twice before he could finally wrench the door open. He saw the flashing light on the answering machine, and dove towards it. He swear he could feel someone laughing from somewhere.

He pressed play.

**Author's Note:**

> What was on the answering machine? The mystery man’s number? His name? The company finally getting back to him? Or a goodbye that closes one door but opens several others?


End file.
